By Design (18 page)

“I might have mentioned it before I left.”

“I am grateful for that. I am glad that you waited until Moira was not present, though. I would not have her worry about something that has no significance.”

He lounged comfortably in the chair. The scar gave him a face half handsome and young, and half old and menacing. His last words rang with a peculiar note. And a request.

There it was, the word or tone or sigh that spoke more than intended. It was what Rhys had been waiting for, and the real reason he had come. He now knew for certain that Mortimer sniffed for a reason, and in the right direction.

The Lord of Barrowburgh had brought his family to London during this hot summer because something kept him from waiting for cooler winds.

Rhys slept fitfully, and eventually not at all. The meeting with Addis had forced him to see the truth. Something was
indeed brewing. Now that he admitted it, he remembered other words and pauses and shielded glances—things he had deliberately ignored, but could no longer.

John had spoken of an army being raised in France. It had sounded preposterous, since Queen Isabella was French, and would surely learn of such a thing. But there were regions where her influence did not extend, places like Brittany or Bordeaux, or other areas John might have called France but which were not loyal to the French royal family.

He considered his situation, and annoyance made him restless. Should some action occur, Mortimer would never believe he had not known beforehand. And if it failed, John would undoubtedly tell Stratford and Lancaster that a certain mason could have helped and did not. He might claim more than that, come to think of it. He might assume that the mason had betrayed them. Addis might assume it, too.

Which that mason could do, with a word or pause or glance of his own, intended or not. Nothing explicit, but enough for a shrewd man like Mortimer to surmise the truth. It might even be for the best, if it ended this foolishness before lives were committed.

Damn. He had known this kind of danger before, but then he had accepted it of his own will.

He swung his legs and sat on the edge of the bed. It was nights like this when he regretted not having married. It would be nice to hold a friend now. A little feminine softness might distract him.

The chamber felt confining, as though its walls cornered him as surely as the situation that he contemplated. He pulled on some clothes and headed down to the garden, seeking the limitless sky.

As he passed through the kitchen, Joan stirred on her pallet. He paused and looked down on her, and his spirit
was soothed immediately. The concerns of this night became something to worry about another day.

He enjoyed watching her sleep, even though he could not see much in the darkness. He relished it all the more because she would be gone soon. He did not doubt that now. Her denial of what had passed between them in the workroom had proven it. It would not be anything that he did that would send her away. It would be something in herself that had nothing to do with him at all. She had made that very plain.

He wondered what it was. He almost envied her this goal that consumed her. He remembered her that first night in this kitchen, crying out a rebel's yell for justice and ignoring the realities he threw back at her. It had been hot, youthful belief clashing with weary, old experience. She had reminded him of himself ten years ago. He had probably been harsher with her because of that.

Whatever it was, it would take her away. Pleasure and affection would not hold her. Nor would the comfort of this house. She resisted the hold of both, just as she did not mingle with the neighbors or find a more private place to nest at night. She wanted no ties to bind her. He understood that. He had lived it. It was easier to be brave if you had nothing to lose.

She spoke of needing coin. He should just give it to her. It was what any friend would do.

He should, but he would not. The affection he had for her was not just that of a friend. She was right; the help and kindness were not selfless on his part. He had never pretended otherwise. He had been honest about that, with her and himself.

She looked so lovely sleeping there. This house was a friendlier place for her presence. She might refuse the closeness he sought, she might deny what this might be, but he still liked having her here. And walking that
precipice every day would be easier if the path led to her every night.

She needed coin. She would leave in order to find a way to get it—unless she could find it here. Well, he could help with that. Not selflessly, not immediately, but help all the same.

Her own sleep had grown restless, as if he intruded on her dreams. She turned on her side and huddled, as though a nightmare had claimed her.

He reached down and touched her shoulder. Her body stiffened. He shook gently. She flipped onto her back and shrugged him off.

He could tell when she woke. He sensed her gazing up at him.

“Come with me, Joan.”

“Nay.”

She had misunderstood. “Not to my bed. Out to the garden. I want to speak with you.”

He left, not knowing if she would follow. Since that day in his workroom, she had worked hard to reestablish distance.

He waited among the flowers at the far wall, where no tree or house obscured the sky.

She came. The moonlight glowed gently off her hair as she walked toward him. “What do you want?”

“I have a proposition to make. You said that you sought out those potters in the market so that you can earn coin. I know a way for you to do so.”

She turned on her heel to retrace her steps. “When I told you to go buy whores, I did not mean that I would be one for you.”

“I would never debase our friendship by offering money for that. It is a different proposition that I have.”

That stopped her. “Go on.”

“It is my new project. It requires tiles, but I am no tiler.
I can judge the quality once they are made, but not the works that will make them. I will need to commission these, and must be sure that the yard can do the work well if I strike the bargain. If you visit those yards with me, you will know if the craft will be as it should be once those tiles are made.”

She idly swept her hands through some tall growth while she thought about it. The gesture made her appear childish. “You would pay me to do this?”

“Aye.”

“How much?”

“Whatever you say it is worth.”

“I would visit the yards with you, and judge the kiln and the skill of the workers, that is all?”

That wouldn't take long at all. “I would want you to visit again a few times once the commission is given, to see that it is being executed properly. And the chambers have plank floors, so you should probably see if they need any work before the tiles are laid.”

“Where are these chambers?”

“At Westminster.”

Her sweeping arms stopped. “Mortimer's chambers?”

“Nay. The King's chambers.”

“Your new project is for the King? Truly for the crown then.”

“You could say that.” You could, and it would be partly right. At least half right, and maybe more if he could pretend ignorance where he was not.

She strolled through the flowers, thinking. “I will visit the yards. I want ten pence for each one that I judge. If I am still here when the tiles are made, I want ten shillings to supervise the quality. But I will not go to the chambers with you. Find a man who lays pavers to judge the floor.”

“It would be easier if you did it.”

“I do not want to go to Westminster. I would feel foolish there, among such grand people.”

“You would be with me, and I am hardly grand. No one notices such as us.”

“Nay.”

“As you like it. In a few days then, we will begin visiting yards.”

“One of the potters in the market, the one from Kent, has a brother who makes tiles. His wares looked good.”

“Then we will start with him. There is one other thing. In two days Moira's new son will be baptized. She has asked that you come to the feast.”

“You said that her husband is a lord. Will there be knights and such there?”

“There are few in the city. It will mostly be people from the ward. She has shown you kindness. You must come and thank her. You know that you must.”

She didn't like it. He could feel her agitation over the idea. Maybe she worried that attending with him would only convince the neighbors of what they already suspected, that she served him with more than food and scrubbing.

“Aye, if it will mostly be people from the ward, I will go and thank her. I would not want to be thought ungrateful,” she said, turning back to the house.

She said it with resignation. And a note of worry.

C
HAPTER
12

M
OIRA NOTICED THEM
immediately when they entered the big hall. She hurried over, her clear blue eyes taking Joan in, then glancing at him in approval.

“I scolded Rhys for not introducing us sooner,” she said, taking Joan's hands in her own. “Come and meet my husband and son, and the child whose birth we celebrate today.”

Addis stood by the cradle that held the infant. His little son Patrick hovered protectively, beaming with delight at all of the adult attention falling on him and his tiny brother. The Lord of Barrowburgh examined Joan with blunt curiosity, and she paled a little under the strong man's inspection.

Moira lifted the drowsy baby from his nest. To Rhys's surprise, she did not place him in Joan's arms as one would expect, but in his own.

It moved him more than he expected. He gazed down at the fresh innocent face, and awe swept him. He knew that Moira had put the child in his arms to make an argument
for lifelong bonds and love. It touched him that she wor ried for his happiness.

The child made what could be a smile, and he smiled back. He looked up to find Joan watching. Her face re mained calmly pleasant, but a sheen of moisture filmed her eyes. He sensed a ripple of unhappiness shiver out of her.

Moira must have sensed it too. She took the child from him, but did not offer the bundle to Joan. Instead, she put the baby back in its cradle, and then eased Joan away to ward a huddle of talking women.

Which left him alone with Addis.

“Your son grows already, Addis. How did you christen him?”

“Did she not tell you? She asked that I name him Rhys.”

He strolled away as he said it. Considering the startling news, Rhys had no choice but to follow.

“I am honored.”

“She said that your friendship has been selfless, and that you once pointed her to the path that led to her hap piness.”

He remembered that day. It had not truly been selfless. A smart man did not marry a woman whose heart was owned by another. If he had accepted what Moira offered, the Lord of Barrowburgh's ghost would have shared their bed every night of their lives.

“She wanted you as godfather, too, but I could not per mit that.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Does it? If you think it is because of your birth, you do not know me well.”

Their casual walk brought them to the end of the hall, near the kitchen. Addis opened the door and led the way through. With more determined steps he aimed for the garden, towing Rhys along.

He finally stopped in a sunlit patch of high grass and wildflowers behind a big tree. “I let Moira think that I found you unsuitable to stand up for the child, but it was not that,” Addis said once he had secured their privacy. “I do not want it thought that you are bound to Barrowburgh in that way. The babe's name is a smaller matter, but an official affinity would not be convenient right now, for either of us.”

“You do not have to explain. The name is honor enough, and more than I deserve.”

Addis nipped a tall yellow flower off its stalk. He had positioned them both so no one could see from the house. “Edward wants to know if you are loyal to him.”

“Of course. He is my king.”

“It is not a common loyalty that he speaks of.”

Addis had been full of surprises today, but this one star tled Rhys the most. “Are you saying that he is joining with Lancaster? That the army being bought in France will fly his banner?”

“He will not tie his fate to either Lancaster or that dream of an army. He gathers men to his side whom he personally trusts, and will act in his own name and in his own time.”

“Has he gathered many?” He knew the answer. He would have known if half the realm supported the young king.

“A handful so far, no more.”

“He needs barons and knights, not masons.”

“He needs the mason who cuts that door to be sworn to him. Surely you know that. He needs the mason who feeds Mortimer information to offer the right food at the right time.”

“I think that you lure me into danger, Addis. And the cause sounds hopeless.”

“There is not so much danger. It is not treason to serve an anointed king.”

“I will be sure to explain that to the executioner.”

Addis laughed. “As will I. Are you with him?”

The request made the passion for justice that had once burned hotly in his blood flicker alive. He tasted the ex citement of affecting his world, not just acceding to it.